


Dark Doesn't Always Mean Evil

by Nopride4531



Category: Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (2012), Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter - Seth Grahame-Smith
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-08-18 08:42:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8156060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nopride4531/pseuds/Nopride4531
Summary: "There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well." -Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice
Henry Sturges was used to being alone.  After losing Edeva, he knew that he would never truly love anyone again, save for a friend or two.  And yet when a young woman—Olivia Armstrong—crashes quite literally into his life, he discovers what it's like to let someone in.  Intrigued, Henry gets to know her—and is shocked to discover that she's from the future.  Slowly, the two learn to care for one another, a feat that has unforeseen consequences, and as their relationship develops, so does Adam and Vadoma's desire for power.  Power that the young Miss Armstrong just so happens to wield.  
Henry/OC.  Rating may go up.  Published on fanfiction.net under the username Conversationkiller111.





	1. The Arrival

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! Welcome (back) to Dark Doesn't Always Mean Evil! I've decided to do things a little (a lot) differently this time around, meaning that instead of having a sequel where Olivia is older, I've decided to make her twenty-two years old in this story. That way, I won't drive you guys insane with having failed sequel after failed, incomplete sequel (but I'm still totally planning a sequel lol).
> 
> So some need to know things: this story takes place about halfway through the movie, after Abraham Lincoln has been elected president. An important OC (Olivia) will be the narrator for most of it and she's from our time. Please forgive some mistakes, such as movie accuracy; I've only seen it a few times.
> 
> Anyways, without further ado, on with the fic!

Henry

The rain pounded relentlessly against the window, a constant, heavy _tap_ - _tap_ - _tapping_ whose sound reverberated throughout his parlor. Henry hated rain. He hated it almost as much as he hated sunshine, what with it's chill and _noise_. There was nothing satisfactory about getting soaked through and through, nothing satisfactory about tarnished clothes. He supposed that, as a vampire, the rain shouldn't bother him—God knew that he couldn't fall ill—and yet he still abhorred it. Perhaps it was this knowledge that made him despise it; yes, that was it; the rain served as a continuous reminder that he wasn't human, that he didn't have the option to fall ill at all. One might argue that this was a good thing, but the way he saw it, he was robbed of a choice—of a freedom—and it tormented him to no end.

There was nothing he could do to change it, however, and complaining would get him nowhere. With a heavy sigh, Henry turned away from the window and sat down on the sofa that rested just beneath it, running a hand through his messy hair. It wasn't as though he had the _right_ to whine; if anything, he should count himself lucky. He was graced with luxuries that ordinary people would die for: money, property, food, a good friend. Yes, as strange as it may seem, he had a _friend_ , someone who put up with him with no questions asked. The fact that said friend was also the president of the United States was a mere bonus.

Abraham Lincoln: vampire hunter, leader, and—above all—a good man. Not a day went by that Henry didn't count himself lucky that they were friends. How exactly that had happened, he still wasn't quite sure; Lincoln certainly hadn't a clue either.

Lost in his thoughts, Henry frowned as a crack of thunder jolted him back to reality. The sound caused the walls to tremble, which was odd. Virginia had definitely seen its fair share of storms, but not one of this magnitude for a while. Glancing over at the window to watch the rain, his eyes immediately landed on the crumpled form of something— _someone_ —in his front yard and he was out of his chair within seconds. If his heart could beat, he was certain that it would've been pounding out of his chest; that said something. He _rarely_ experienced adrenaline rushes anymore, probably hadn't since he became a vampire, and the fact that he was having one now only proved to him that whatever was going on was serious. Call it instinct, call it insanity, but it was certainly something he couldn't ignore.

Throwing open the front door, Henry dashed outside into the downpour, immediately getting soaked through. As each stride took him closer to the figure, he began to see its— _her—_ features more clearly, though he couldn't determine her fate until he was kneeling next to her. She was breathing, albeit shakily, and seemed to favor the right side of her stomach. Bright crimson leaked from underneath her fingers—the nails of which were painted black—and stained her clothes. It was then that he noticed that she wasn't dressed as a woman, but a man, sporting a white collared shirt with a skull embroidered over the left breast pocket and a _very_ short skirt that would've made him blush if he still could. Black boots that went up to her knees covered her feet, but they were unlaced and filled with rain.

Realizing that she could very well die if left unattended, Henry lifted the girl into his arms as gently as he could and raced back into the house, kicking the door shut behind him. He set her on the floor before racing into the kitchen to grab his first aid kit, thanking whatever God was out there that he still kept one. When he had it, he hurried back to the girl and knelt next to her, peeling her fingers away from her side so that he could assess the damage. The wound was long and angry, but thankfully not too deep and he was able to stitch it without much difficulty. She hissed as the needle went in and tried to curl away from it, but eventually fell into a deeper state of unconsciousness. When he was finished, he bandaged the wound tightly and lifted her into his arms once again, carrying her to the upstairs guest bedroom.

As he gently lifted the blankets and deposited her on the bed, Henry frowned as he took in her appearance once more. The clothing was definitely odd, but the most shocking things were the makeup and her hair. The latter was cropped short and messy, almost as if she'd taken a knife and cut it herself, while the former was heavily applied. Raindrops dripped down deep purple lips and dark plum eyeshadow covered her eyelids, hardly appropriate for _any_ woman to wear. His cheeks wanted to flush again, but didn't and he immediately shook his head before moving quickly toward the door. he shut it—softly, so he wouldn't wake her—and descended the stairs into the parlor, heavily sitting down in one of the armchairs. Questions, each without answers, flooded his mind, questions that wondered who the girl—woman, rather—was and how on earth she'd managed to receive a wound of that severity. If someone had done that to her, would they be back?

As he rested his head against his hand, a flash of white light lit up the room, temporarily blinding him. He threw his arms up to protect his eyes, lowering them slowly as the brightness died into a warm glow, then retreated all together. His ears rang, but he was unharmed, and he cautiously stood, moving toward the area the flash had blasted. Resting on his coffee table lay a bag—red leather bound and warm to the touch. A piece of paper rested comfortably on top of it and his name stared up at him, written in flawless, elegant cursive. Warily, Henry grabbed the note and opened it, reading quickly.

_The bag is for the girl,_ it said in the same script as the writing on the front. _Don't look in it unless she gives your permission._

Frowning, he set the letter aside and reached for the satchel, but what he intended to do escaped him. The moment he touched it, he snapped his hand away, a low hiss escaping his lips. The leather was _hot,_ almost as if it was made of fire, and as he glanced back at the letter, he found himself unable to refrain from shuddering.

_I warned you,_ it read in words that had definitely not been there before. _Maybe next time you'll listen to me._

_._

_._

_._

_._

Olivia

The first thing I was aware of was pain.

Drawing in a deep breath, I winced and struggled to sit up, immediately regretting the action when fire shot through my side like an arrow. With a huff of a sigh, I decided that moving probably wasn't the best idea and relaxed against the soft, fluffy mattress beneath me. Big, comfortable pillows supported my neck and I did my best to remain still. My eyes were closed and didn't feel like opening any time soon, silently telling me to go back to sleep. And I almost did, even began to dream a little, something about rain and being carried into a house and—

Holy. _Shit._ I wasn't in my room.

My eyes snapped open as I abruptly sat up, adrenaline dulling the pain in my side to a manageable ache. All of the air left me in a rush until I was gasping nearly uncontrollably. Not only was I _definitely_ not in my room, I wasn't even in my apartment, nor one that I recognized. The walls were painted a creamy color, completely different from the dark, peeling olive green that coated my crappy apartment, and paintings lined them, old oil ones that I felt as though I recognized, but couldn't quite name. The bed, a beautiful, sturdy one with what looked like a mahogany frame and a canopy, rested on a wooden floor, both a step up from my rickety single bed (well, little more than a mattress) and stained carpet. The sheets were crisp and clean, the comforter soft—probably down—and as I looked at my surroundings in wonder, two questions entered my mind:

One: where the _hell_ was I?

And two: what the _hell_ did I have to drink last night?

In all the honesty, part of me wanted to stay in the bed and go back to sleep so I wouldn't have to deal with any of this. The other part (the relatively rational one) told me to get up and figure out where I was—and probably find a way to leave. So with a heavy sigh, I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress and shakily got to my feet. It wasn't easy—the pain in my side made moving much more difficult than usual—but I managed and swayed my way over to the door. I opened it with ease, pleased to discover that it wasn't locked. Okay; that was good. Whoever's room this was clearly didn't want to keep me prisoner here. A good samaritan, then? Someone who happened upon me and wanted to help? Even as I pondered the idea, I scoffed; good samaritans... there're no such things.

As I stepped out into the hallway, I was immediately greeted by darkness. Old-fashioned wall lights—candles on sconces—stared at me while I made my way to the stairs at the end of the hall. O-kay. That was weird. Did I pass out in some sort of museum? Or someone's house who collected antiques? I mean, coupled with the oil paintings, the decor in this place was like something out of Versailles. Whoever owned it clearly had money—and a _lot_ of it.

Climbing down the stairs was a pain (literally), and I was glad when I finally did it, though my side was roaring by the time I reached the last step. Finally deciding to check on what was causing it to hurt so badly, I gingerly peeled back my shirt—and blanched as I caught sight of the blood stained bandages that wrapped the lower half of my torso. Alright. What. the. _hell._ I _definitely_ did _not_ remember getting hurt _at all_. As a matter of fact, the last thing I _could_ remember was walking back to my apartment from my calculus class (which, in all honesty, gives me more agony than the damn _wound_ in my side). So that meant one of two things:

A: I was mugged and left for dead and some good samaritan helped me (again, no such thing);

or B: yeah. I don't even know.

And yet there was practically nothing I could do besides continue exploring—and look for a way home while I was at it. So I staggered my way through the Versailles-esque house, eventually coming across a spacey parlor with large, beautiful windows that offered a perfect view into the yard outside. It was raining—pouring, really—and absolutely did _not_ look anything like San Francisco, which, oh yeah, I was supposed to be. And to raise the weirdness factor to five hundred percent? My bookbag—which I do _not_ remember having with me—was sitting right in front of me on what looked like an antique coffee table.

Ye-ah. I've lost my mind.

I frowned and walked over to the table, gently running my fingers along the red leather of my bag. Oddly enough, it was warm to the touch, though not scalding, and I peered inside of it, my frown deepening when I saw what was inside. All of my medication—vitamins included—stared up at me, along with a few books and a couple of my journals, even the ones that contained my notes from my classes. It was like someone had taken the time to make me a care package before whisking me off to Wonderland.

"What are you doing?"

Barely stifling a shriek, I spun around, immediately regretting the action when pain flared in my side. I ignored it, however, and decided to focus all of my attention on the man who'd just spoken. He was young—roughly around my age, maybe a few years older—and dressed well, like he was going to the opera. His dark brown hair looked slightly messy, but not unkept, and his eyes—a rich brown—were dark, yet not menacing. They watched me closely as I just stood there and stared like an idiot.

Oh and one other thing: he was cute. Like _really_ cute.

"What are you doing?" He asked again, more gently this time, and took a step forward, to which I responded to with a step back.

"I, ah," I began, scrambling for words that I couldn't find. "I mean... what?"

He frowned, moving toward me again. "Are you alright?"

There was a hint of an accent in his voice, but my brain refused to recognize it, instead dwelling on the fact that I didn't want him to come any closer. I backed away another step, hitting my shin on the coffee table in the process, and defensively put my arms out in front of me. "I... I'm fine. I... just give me a second."

Slowly, he nodded and held his hands up in what was supposed to be a calming gesture. "It's alright," he murmured, like he was speaking to a wounded animal. "I'm not going to hurt you."

_That's what they_ all _say in the movies,_ I thought, but relaxed a little against my better judgment.

He appeared satisfied that I wasn't going to run or break into hysterics, and lowered his hands. "Can you tell me your name?"

Although every instinct in my mind should've been screaming at me to not answer, my gut seemed to think it was okay. "Olivia," I responded, albeit shakily. "Olivia Armstrong."

And why did I give my full name? Because I'm a moron.

The man nodded again, looking like he was debating with himself, and I somehow mustered up enough courage to speak again: "Uh... who're you?"

Any trace of debate immediately vanished from his face as he squared his shoulders and looked me in the eye. "Sturges," he replied, a hint of a chill in his tone. "Henry Sturges. Now can you tell me, Miss Armstrong, how in the _hell_ you just appeared in my yard?"

I flinched at the sudden shift in his demeanor and barely resisted the urge to curl in on myself, anxiety flooding through my veins. "I, ah, I have no idea," I stammered, quickly glancing around for a weapon I could use in case he decided to attack me. "I, uh, I was hoping _you_ could tell me that."

Apparently noticing my discomfort, the man—Henry—eased out of his aggressive posture and sighed. "Forgive me. I... I should've realized the state you're in. You must be frightened. But I'm afraid I don't know much more than you. One minute, the yard was empty, the next..." He trailed off.

Although his tone was slightly less harsh, I didn't relax. Confusion crossed my mind as I began to take note of his dialect. And his accent. And his clothes. And the rest of his house. Realization—horrible and cold—hit me not two seconds later and I felt my eyes widen.

"This, ah," I began, barely managing to keep my breathing under control, "this is gonna sound like a really, _really_ weird question, but uh, what year is it?"

I watched his brow furrow with ever growing dread until he finally said: "1863."

The date barely had time to register with me before I felt my head begin to ache. Making it approximately two steps forward, I suddenly saw the floor rushing toward me.

And then there was nothing but peaceful darkness.


	2. Recovery

My first thought as I slowly drifted back into consciousness was this: I _really_ need to stop being overly dramatic about everything, which meant, in essence, no. more. fainting.

In my defense, however, I _did_ just find out that I somehow managed to travel back in time well over a century. Such a thing could put quite a bit of stress on the brain and, all things considered, I probably reacted fairly well. Granted, I've never fainted a day in my life prior to now and I supposed that I should be slightly worried about my mental state, but I could only focus on the fact that—hello— _I just went back in freaking time._ It wasn't possible—or, at least it _shouldn't_ have been. Time travel to the past couldn't physically exist, not when so many possibilities for paradoxes presented themselves. Good god, what if I'd already caused one?

It took me a while to open my eyes, but when I did, I saw that someone was hovering over me: the man who, I guess, had saved my life—Henry. He stared down at me, face a blank mask, and I found myself flinching away from him as much as the floor would allow. Just because he rescued me didn't mean that I trusted him. My trust needed to be _earned_ —and even then, I might not give it. Life had made me cautious—perhaps overly so—and taught me not to put my faith in anyone but myself. I wouldn't make many friends with that policy, but if it kept me alive, I could deal. I'd rather be alive and alone than dead with company.

I moved to heave myself into a sitting position, but Henry gently placed his hand on my shoulder, effectively keeping me in place. "You shouldn't move," he muttered. "Don't know how badly you're hurt."

Tensing at the contact, I ignored him and shrugged his hand off, moving slowly until I was upright. My head spun a little, but other than that and the throbbing pain in my side, I felt alright. A little freaked out about the whole 'time travel' thing, but alright.

"Okay," I managed, though my voice was significantly weaker than I wanted. "I'm okay."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but instead sighed and responded: "Alright, but _at least_ take it slowly... That wound on your side has stitches and you won't want to tear them. Trust me."

I nodded curtly and leaned back on my elbows, doing my best not to jostle the gash too much; a feat that was impossible, considering that it moved every time I breathed. Henry meanwhile took the opportunity to stand and walk over to the large bar that rested in the corner of the parlor, pulling out two glasses and pouring what looked like rum into them. He then took the drinks and crossed back over to me, silently offering one of them, which I reluctantly accepted. I figured that it was safe—after all, I _did_ watch him pour it—and warily took a sip. Yeah. Definitely rum.

"Thanks," I murmured, deciding that I should at least act polite toward him. "I, ah, I haven't had a drink in a while."

He tipped his chin. "It's a daily necessity for me."

_Great_ , I thought, nervously drinking more of the rum. _He's gonna get wasted and kill me._

Despite my (slightly irrational) thinking, Henry merely nursed his glass and extended his arm to help me stand. After a moment of hesitation, I grabbed his hand and allowed him to haul me to my feet. He was surprisingly gentle, but lifted me like I weighed nothing; odd, considering that he didn't have much of a build. When I was more or less steady, he led me over to a couch and motioned for me to sit down, taking a seat in the chair accross from me when I begrudgingly complied. For a moment, neither one of us spoke. I absently swirled the rum in my glass while he watched me with a piercing gaze, like he was trying to decypher an impossible code. Fidgeting, I avoided his eyes, hating every second of the intense scrutiny.

"So tell me, Miss Armstrong," he eventually said, shifting so that he could rest his head on his hand. "Why'd you ask the year?"

And there it was, the question of the ages. Part of me was screaming to lie, to make up anything as far from the truth as possible, while the other half of me felt that telling him wasn't the worst damn idea I'd ever had. Opening my mouth to answer, I abruptly shut it as I realized that I still had no idea what I was going to say. If—major _if—_ I decided to be honest, he could react one of two ways: either believe me and help me get back home, or call me a liar and think me crazy. I was willing to put money on the latter, since time travel is considered impossible by most rational people. That and no man would offer a woman help without expecting something in return.

After a while of internal debate, I remembered that Henry was waiting for an answer—particularly one that I didn't quite have. Swallowing the sudden bile that rose in my throat, I steeled myself and said: "I, ah, this is going to sound really, really, _really_ insane, but... uh... I asked what year it is because... because I think I just went back in time some one hundred and fifty odd years."

I finished in a jumbled rush, nervously squeezing my glass of rum so hard that my knuckles turned white. To give him credit, Henry didn't react like I thought he would. Instead of jumping up and declaring me a lunatic, he just sat there and stared at me with that same piercing gaze, face completely devoid of any revealing emotions. In all honesty, I almost _wished_ that he would act angry or scoff at my theory; at least then I could read _something_ in his expression.

Eventually, though, he nodded and lifted his chin until he was looking down at me. "Let's say I believe you." He steepled his fingers. "How is that even _possible?"_

"Good question." I downed the rest of my drink, suddenly needing something to distract me. "Most of what I know about time travel comes from Doctor Who, and that hasn't even been invented yet. I'm a literature major. I don't know shit about physics."

Maybe it was the alcohol that disabled my filter (I've always been a lightweight), but I couldn't bring myself to care about the use of profanity. Yes, I knew that ladies in the nineteenth century were supposed to act 'proper' and not swear all that much, but I've never really been one to accept social standards. And if Henry was one of those stuffy, _'a-woman-should-know-her-place'_ types, then dangerous or not, I would leave, find help somewhere else. No one— _no one_ —told me that I had a 'place,' not unless they wanted a combat boot kicking in their teeth.

Surprisingly, however, Henry didn't even flinch, actually smirked a little at the swear, and finished his glass of rum. "Well, Miss Armstrong, I'm afraid I'm at a loss. Assuming I believe you, I've no knowledge of time travel either, save for works of fiction."

I internally groaned and sank against the sofa, mentally chastising myself for even _thinking_ that he would help me. "Then I'm stuck here," I stated, tilting my head back until I was staring at the ceiling. "Great. Back in time and I didn't even get sent somewhere cool, like Robber's Roost or Hole in the Wall. Whoever—or _whatever_ —made this possible clearly doesn't know me all that well. I mean, no offense, but I'd _totally_ rather be out west, meeting Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, but they're not even outlaws yet."

Of course, I was rambling and probably spilling too much information about the future (Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid? Really? They're more late 1800s than mid). On top of that, I was acting like a complete _ass_ by saying that this time period wasn't interesting. In my defense, though, I was likely in shock, still freaking out about going back in freaking time. In all honesty, I was surprised that I hadn't completely dissolved into hysterics. Normally when anything even remotely inconvenient happened to me, it took about two anti-anxiety pills and at _least_ an hour of crying to calm me down. The fact that I wasn't having a panic attack was definitely odd.

"I, ah, I'm sorry if I'm being rude," I apologized, avoiding his eyes. "I... there's nothing _wrong_ with this time period. I'm... I'm just awkward, okay?"

Henry raised an eyebrow. "You lost me a while ago, Miss Armstrong. At 'cool.' I don't understand. Is the future warmer than now?"

It took practically all of my self control not to laugh, the question so ridiculous that I nearly wheezed. He didn't know any better. In fact, most of my modern vocabulary would probably confuse him, which meant that I would need to do a _lot_ of explaining. "No, no," I eventually answered, barely managing to suppress another fit of giggles. "'Cool' is a slang term. It means... well, _interesting."_

He nodded and drummed his fingers against his glass. "And this... Butch Cassidy? Who is he?"

My eyes went wide as I struggled with what to tell him, finally deciding on: "He's... something of a hero."

"But you said he's an... outlaw?"

_Shit._ "In, ah, in the future," I stuttered, praying— _praying—_ that I wasn't _seriously_ messing up the whole concept of space-time. "We, ah, we romanticize outlaws—well, the western ones, anyways. And, I don't know, as long as you don't kill or hurt any innocent people, you're good in my book."

He appeared relatively satisfied and didn't ask any further about the subject, for which I felt gratitude. Stars only knew how much I've already royally screwed up history. We sat in silence for a while, though, oddly enough, it wasn't awkward. Granted, it wasn't exactly comfortable either—more like somewhere in between the two—but it was a hell of a lot better than most silences I've experienced. Thunder rumbled off in the distance as dark clouds coated the sky, making it nearly impossible to determine the time. Thankfully, a large grandfather clock told me that it was half-past three, and judging by the lack of light pokeing through the clouds, it was three thirty in the _morning._

I supposed that that meant I should technically feel exhausted—which, of course, I was beginning to—but I'd always loved mornings... well, sort of. I loved mornings where _I_ decided when to get out of bed, not when my alarm went off. I loved mornings where I didn't have to worry about finishing my ever-growing pile of essays before my next class. I loved mornings where I could make a cup of coffee or tea and read a book or watch my favorite movie. Basically, I loved mornings where _I_ was in control of my life—a more rare occurrence these days than ever.

A few minutes—each longer than the last—passed before one of us decided to talk again, and it was me that did it. "If, ah, if you don't mind me asking," I began, nervously chewing on my lip for a second before continuing: "what's next? I mean, I'm _stuck here._ I'm in a completely different century and everything I know about how to... well, _live_ , is basically useless. I, ah, I don't really know what to do."

Normally, I would have kicked myself for admitting just how vulnerable I really was, but at this point, I needed help and I needed it _badly_. I would just have to—unfortunately—trust someone else for a change. It felt absolutely _wrong_. Putting faith in anyone but myself... yeah. Every instinct I had was yelling at me to run fast and run far. Although Henry hadn't done anything to alarm me (yet), I couldn't rely solely on him. Hell, he'd probably refuse to help me at all and throw me out of his house the minute I could walk without feeling like my insides were going to explode. In all honesty, I would gladly leave on my own if I could. There was only one tiny problem: I felt like death. And because I'm (arguably) not an idiot, I could determine for myself when I needed to stay put. And sadly, now was one of those times.

Henry waited a while before responding, clearly thinking hard about my question, and that only served to heighten my anxiety. Finally, after what seemed like forever, he answered: "Before we do anything else, you need time to heal. I'm not a doctor, but that wound is going to take at _least_ to close." He crossed one leg over the other. "We'll take this one step at a time."

Slowly, I nodded, feeling oddly comforted. I immediately dismissed the sensation in favor of doubt, reminding myself that, although Henry _seemed_ like a trustworthy man, I couldn't rely on his word. "One step at a time," I repeated to myself, then said louder: "So what do I do for a week? I'm not exactly good at doing nothing, and it's not like Skyrim exists yet." I winced at the slip up. "Ah, ignore that last part."

Truth was, I was absolutely _terrible_ at resting when told to. I _always_ had to do _something,_ whether it was play video games or running or reading. And, since video games hadn't been invented yet, I couldn't run without dying, and I hadn't seen a single book in Henry's house besides the ones in my bag, I was pretty much screwed for a whole week. The thought alone made me internally groan. If I didn't die of boredom, I would... well, I don't know what I'd do, but I'd definitely be grateful. So, here's hoping that, for as much as I didn't trust him, Henry was an entertaining host.

"You said you studied literature?" He eventually asked, confusing me beyond belief.

"Um... yes?" I responded warily, shrinking back into the couch a little and wondering why on earth he decided to ask me _that._

A hint of something entered his eyes and he stood, slowly crossing over to me and holding his hand out. "Can you walk?"

For a moment, I just stared stupidly at it before realizing I was supposed to grab it. "I guess."

After I was standing, he helped me out of the living room and into the hallway, moving carefully, so as not to jostle my wound. Part of me felt curious, the other terrified. I wanted to know where he was taking me, but at the same time, I worried it might be a torture dungeon or something like that. Irrational thought? Yes. Did that stop me from thinking it? No. In case it wasn't already obvious, irrational beliefs kind of made up my mind most of the time, especially during potentially dangerous situations. I constantly had to remind myself that, in all likelihood, much of what popped into my head _wasn't_ logical. Terrifying, but not logical—so I guess it really shouldn't have been a surprise that I flunked my logistics class.

We rounded a corner, passing a rather spacious kitchen, and came to a closed set of doors. Exactly what lay beyond them, I had no idea, but had no choice other than finding out. As Henry slowly pushed one of them open, I reluctantly followed him into the room—

—and abruptly stood still.

At _least_ two dozen shelves lined the walls, absolutely _filled_ with books—countless books, ranging from literature to poetry to non-fiction. While I stared in childlike awe, Henry walked over to one of the shelves and ran his fingers over the delicate spines. "As you can see, I've quite the extensive library," he said, turning to face me. "This should keep you busy for a week."

"No shit!" I breathed, still too shocked to care about vulgarity. "This place is amazing! Have you read all of these?"

He nodded. "Most of them, yes, though I've yet to read a few. Other than that, I can almost guarantee I've read it."

I glanced over at him, skepticism radiating from me in waves. "No way."

"Feel free to test me."

"Okay," I drawled, gearing up to win this argument. "Hamlet."

_"'Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest.'"_

"A Tale of Two Cities."

_"'It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.'"_

"Les Miserables."

_"'Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.'"_

I let out an incredulous breath and crossed my arms over my chest. "Damn. You know your literature."

He didn't smile, but looked amused, and walked toward the doors once again. "Feel free to browse, Miss Armstrong. Nothing has a proper place; just don't leave it out."

And with that, he excited the room, leaving me to wander the library until dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this chapter! I hope all of you liked it! Feedback is always appreciated! Thanks for reading!


	3. A Chance Arrangement

The first few days of the week it took my wound to close were relatively entertaining, considering Henry's nearly endless supply of books. I managed to finish three in total for the week as a whole—a new personal record—and I have to say, my host was actually a pretty cool guy. Although I still didn't trust him (and probably never would), I found myself slowly beginning to at least accept him as 'probably not a murderer.' Did that mean I stopped acting like an awkward child? Ah, no; but I _did,_ however, stop tensing whenever he entered the room around my third day of recovery. I also began responding to his questions with answers longer than a couple of words. In all honesty, Henry provided enough information about the past (well, technically present) that I could challenge most modern historians. He answered all kinds of _my_ questions, even the blatantly absurd ones. Yes, Edgar Allan Poe was as broody and reclusive as his poems and stories suggested. Yes, Charles Dickens was an incredibly popular author in the United States... no, we couldn't go to England to meet him (you can imagine my disappointment at the last response).

His questions were more controlled, more sensitive—and more about _me_ rather than the future. He wanted to know why I chose to study literature of all subjects, to which I responded (kinda lamely, might I add) that fiction was a passion of mine and that I believed it revealed more about life than non-fiction. He also asked me why I dressed so... 'unusual,' as he so eloquently put it. This made me laugh before I realized the serious answer the inquiry made me think about. Why _did_ I wear my style of clothing? And makeup? Normally, I wouldn't have even wondered, but I could tell that Henry wasn't going to accept a dismissive response and, as a result, I thought hard about the answer.

"I guess it's about individuality," I finally said, meeting his inquiring eyes with a small smile. "I mean, even though women's rights are far, _far_ better than they are now—no offense—we still have limitations forced on us by society. We're still living in a man's world, not a world of equality. I guess dressing the way I do is my way of saying that I won't conform to the bullshit restrictions that social standards demand I follow. Now, I'm not saying that there's anything _wrong_ with wearing dresses and other things considered 'feminine;' part of my core beliefs say that women should have the right to _choose_ what they want. I only get pissed when society _forces_ us to do or wear or believe something we don't want to." I realized that I was ranting and abruptly stopped, blushing a deep shade of scarlet. "Uh, sorry. I, ah, I get worked up about this shi— _stuff."_

I expected him to scoff, to say that I should just appreciate that I had more rights than women elsewhere, a spiel that I've heard too many times to count. How he actually responded, though, was a complete shock to me:

"Well said, Miss Armstrong."

I frowned, confusion radiating from me in waves. "What?"

It was a stupid question, really, but Henry merely smirked. "I understand that you may have... low opinions about men; I can't blame you for that; they sometimes give _me_ headaches as well. And yet just because I happen to _be_ a man, doesn't mean I share their beliefs, nor that all of them are oppressive." He stood from where he sat in one of the library's many chairs. "Judge us not equally, Miss Armstrong."

And with that, he exited the room, leaving me to wallow in guilt. As much as I hated the 'not _all_ men' speech, I had to recognize that Henry had a bit of a point. Had I really been so caught up in my fears that I'd come to believe that men were little more than oppressive operators only in the game for themselves? Had I forgotten what I stood for, that many men are just as much victims of society as I am? Perhaps. Would I willingly admit this to anyone, let alone Henry? Ah, no... but maybe, _maybe,_ I would at least _acknowledge_ his advice and be a little less judgmental. After all, he'd helped me when there wasn't really anything in it for him; didn't that deserve a little respect?

Shaking my head, I closed the book in my hands ( _Pride and Prejudice_ —and _yes_ I was aware of the irony) and stood, leaving it sitting on the chair. I knew that I should find Henry and thank him for listening to me rant (and actually kind of taking my side), but when I reached the doors to the library, I froze. The room seemed oddly... _warm,_ almost like someone had lit a fire, and I frowned, glancing over my shoulder. My eyes widened as I caught sight of the reason for the sudden rise in temperature: what looked like tiny bolts of lightening surrounded the chair I'd just left, crackling like radio static and twitching as if met with resistance. While I watched, too dumbfounded and frightened to move, the light grew brighter—so bright that I was forced to shield my eyes. I wanted to scream, but the sound just wouldn't come, and I could only assume that I was too paralyzed with fear.

And then, almost as quickly as it had started, the light vanished, leaving me with black spots dancing in front of my eyes. As I lowered my hands, I looked over at the chair and saw a neatly folded piece of paper resting on it, my name written on the front in elegant, flawless cursive. Hesitantly, I crept toward it and picked it up, opening it a second later.

_'Dear Miss Armstrong,'_ it began and I felt a chill run down my spine despite the warm room. _'I'm sorry for not writing sooner. As you can imagine, these letters take quite a bit of energy to send and it took me a while to gather enough._

_You've probably figured out by now that I'm responsible for sending you back in time. I'll get to that presently. At the moment, I wish to tell you that the reason why you're here is far more important than you could have ever imagined. You_ must _not fail. Doing so would only end in catastrophic consequences._

_I understand that you have many questions. 'Who are you?' 'Why am I here?' 'Why me?' I'm sorry to say that I cannot answer them as of now. You'll have to figure them out for yourself._

_I may not be able to send another letter for a while, so until next time, stay strong. You can do this._

_-S'_

Well, I could at least say that whoever the hell sent me back in time was polite; not that it really mattered.

In all seriousness: what. the. _hell._ _I'm_ the one that actually _does_ the time traveling, and all I get is a crappy letter? No explanation, hardly any sympathy, and no clues as to who did this? Yeah, either I had the worst luck in the universe, or my mysterious pen-pal hated me. Honestly, I would put money on both of those if I had the chance, but since I didn't exactly _have_ any money (the joys of being a college student), that proved impossible. Just my frickin' luck.

Against my will, tears filled my eyes, threatening to spill over if I didn't do anything about them. Blinking rapidly, I forced them to dry. If it's one thing I could say about myself, it was this: I was good at hiding tears; I'd _always_ been good at it, but refined the skill over the past few years. With my vision clear, I folded the letter and shoved it in my pocket before exiting the library. For some odd reason that I likely knew the answer to but didn't want to confront it, the house suddenly seemed too cramped, too stuffy. Even though it was easily the largest dwelling I'd ever stayed in, I just wanted to get _out_. Yes, I knew of the dangers that interacting with the public of the past posed, but at that point, I really didn't give a damn. If I didn't get some fresh air soon, I would go crazy.

Henry was in the kitchen when I finally found him, trying to get the stove to light, to no avail. I could hear him cursing from the doorway and grinned, finding the profanity oddly... cute. Oh dear God, forget I said that. I don't know what's wrong with me.

"You're not using the right kind of kindling," I eventually said after a few seconds of watching him struggle.

"If you think you can do better," he responded without looking over at me, "then by all means, do so."

My smile widened as I stepped forward and motioned for him to move. Upon first glance, it seemed as though the kindling was wet, but as I looked closer, I saw that the problem lay in the fact that it was too big. Instead of using twigs and brush to start with, Henry had been trying to light _sticks._ Shooting him a wry grin, I changed out the kindling for something smaller and had the stove lit in practically no time at all. As I stood back, Henry gaped at me, showing more expression (if you could call it that) than I had ever seen on his face.

_"How?"_ He demanded and I raised an eyebrow.

"Like I said: wrong kindling."

There was silence for a few moments, during which Henry brought a large kettle over to the stove and set it on top, and I debated what to say. I didn't know how he would react to my request for fresh air, didn't know if he would vehemently refuse it or actually agree to it. I also wondered if I should apologize to him for the rant or thank him for listening. He could have just as easily scoffed at me and dismissed everything I said, but he hadn't. _That_ deserved at least a little recognition, right? Ye-ah. I thought so.

"Listen," I began, reluctantly meeting his eyes, "I, ah, I just wanted to thank you... for everything, ya know? I really appreciate it. I mean, you didn't _have_ to help me last week when this whole thing started, but you did." I briefly glanced away, feeling my cheeks begin to flush. "Sorry that I haven't exactly been, y'know, _accepting_ , for lack of a better word. I'm just... I'm so used to everyone always being out for themselves that I forget that people can actually be _good._ "

Okay, that was _way_ more than I'd intended to reveal, but whatever; as long as it got my point across. To give him credit, Henry didn't laugh at my awkwardness or roll his eyes at the rambling. He smirked a little, but I'd come to realize that that was a common expression for him when he didn't know what the hell to say. I did my best to return the small smile, but it ended up being little more than a twitch of my lips and I quickly decided that maybe I should just wait for him to answer instead of make myself look like a fool.

"No apology necessary, Miss Armstrong," he responded, turning away to rummage through the kitchen cabinets. "I understand what you're going through."

I let out an incredulous breath. "Really? Experience many internal crises, then?"

The joke was lame—I'll freely admit to that—but Henry smirked all the same and glanced my way after he found whatever was in the cupboard. "More than you'd think, actually."

"Sure." For some reason, I didn't believe him. "You're, what, twenty-four?"

_"Five-_ and-twenty." He set a rather large kettle on the stove. "Does it matter? I can only guess that you're two-and-twenty, perhaps three, and I assume you've had many an 'internal crisis.'"

_More than you could ever imagine_ , I thought, but instead uttered: "In my defense, going back in time counts as a _major_ crisis." My eyes widened as I realized what I'd said and I frantically backtracked. "I'm not saying that meeting you is bad or anything, I, uh, I just—shit, what's wrong with me?"

In case it hasn't already become painfully, _painfully_ obvious, I had the social skills of a tree.

Henry didn't respond and I took that as my cue to stop talking, instead opting to sit down at the small square table that resided in the center of the room. As we waited for the water in the kettle to boil, he brought over some bread that he'd made yesterday and set it in front of me before gesturing for me to take some. Despite the fact that I was hungry, I only grabbed a little piece, not wanting to appear overzealous or rude. He then sat across from me and took a slice for himself—a larger one than mine, but not by much.

"Is something bothering you, Miss Armstrong?" He eventually asked, tilting his head to one side. "Have I—"

I shook my head fervently. "No, no! You, ah, you haven't done anything wrong. I just..." I thought about the letter I'd received, about the strange energy that it took to send it, and bit my lip before continuing: "Something kinda... happened—nothing bad, though."

Henry waited.

"Someone—or some _thing_ , I don't know—sent me a letter," I relayed in a jumbled rush as I fished through my pocket for the paper. "Apparently, they're the one who sent me back in time. They didn't leave a name or anything, just the letter 'S.'"

I handed the note to him and then sat back, suddenly not hungry. He scanned it and then gave it back to me, tiredly running a hand through his hair. "And you have no idea who this 'S' is?"

I shook my head again. "Sam? Sally? Servant to our dark lord Satan? Your guess is as good as mine."

There was a moment of silence as Henry thought over the contents of the letter, during which I drummed my fingers against the table. None of this made any sense. Why send someone back in time? More importantly, why send _me?_ It wasn't like I was a historian or a physicist or, hell, even someone who actually _wanted_ to go to the past. I was just a literature student who spent more time reading books and living in _them_ than actually dealing with reality. I was probably the _last_ person who should time travel to _any_ period, let alone the goddamn civil war. Not only was I completely displaced (because, let's face it, a punk-rock feminist in the 1800s? Yeah, bad idea), I would also eventually have to interact with the public, which could cause a freaking paradox. So, in all honesty, I was basically screwed.

"Listen," I said after a while, when the quiet became nearly unbearable. "I, uh, I was wondering... if, y'know, I could go outside for a little bit? No offense, but staying cooped up indoors for another week doesn't really sound all that great. As much as I would _love_ to be a little hermit, I _do_ kinda miss being out in public... kinda."

Henry nodded as he stood and removed the kettle from the stove. "Of course," he responded, pouring tea into two cups and handing one to me. "I believe you'll find the city quite agreeable, actually."

It suddenly occurred to me that, aside from the United States, I had no idea where I was. "I'm sure I will... What city is it?"

"Washington DC."

Holy _shit,_ we were really close to the Confederate border, which was enough to make me more than slightly nervous—even though I knew that battles of the Civil War never went that far north. Instead of freaking out, however, I simply nodded and sipped my tea. "Huh. Never been there; never had the time or the money."

"You never forget your first trip to the capital." Henry took another piece of bread and buttered it. "It's remarkable, really."

"Never forget it, huh?" I cradled my cup in my hands, reveling in its warmth. "So what was _yours_ like?"

He smirked a little and tapped his hand against the table. "Incredible. The art, the literature, the city itself... there's nothing like it."

"I think I can relate," I murmured, returning his smile with one of my own. "Before I got sent here, I was looking to move out of my town—well, city. I live—lived—in San Diego, but I wanted to move up north, to San Francisco. I was looking into transferring my university credits to Stanford, but..." I trailed off as I realized that I was revealing way, _way_ too much about myself. "Um... they wouldn't accept them," I finished lamely, knowing that Henry—perceptive as he was—would know that there was more to it than that.

In his defense, he didn't question me any further about the subject, for which I was grateful. I didn't want to talk about it. I _never_ wanted to talk about it. All it did was serve as a painful reminder of what I could've had—and all that I'd lost.

"If we're going to go into town," he eventually began, snapping me out of my thoughts, "we'll have to do something about your attire." The corners of his mouth twitched in a halfhearted smirk. "You'll need to blend in."

My heart sank as I realized what he was saying. "Oh no," I argued, setting my cup aside so forcefully that its contents almost spilled. "No, you are _not_ going to get me into one of those fancy, 1800s dresses!"

"I'm afraid you'll have to." There was a hint of laughter in his tone. "Unless you want to astound the locals."

In my head, I thought about how long it had been since I'd shaved my legs, but then realized that it didn't matter; 1800s dresses didn't even show ankles. "I can live with astounding them. I've done worse."

Henry shook his head and stood, a small grin on his face. "Bathroom's down the hall and to the left, if you wish to freshen up. The house has running water and I'll have clothes ready for you when you're done."

And with that, he exited the kitchen, leaving me to grumble quietly to myself. It wasn't long, however, until I conceded defeat and stood, making my toward the bathroom. I followed my host's directions and shut the door behind me before gazing at the room in shock. It was absolutely _beautiful._ The bathtub was actual porcelain (or looked a _lot_ like it, at least) and there wasn't a stain in sight—a complete change from _my_ bathroom at home, which was _covered_ in soap scum and other undesirable grime ( _yes,_ I frequently cleaned it; but it's kinda hard to get rid of _years_ worth of filth from the countless other tenants that lived in the apartment before me). In all honesty, Henry's home put mine to shame and I wondered how the _hell_ he'd made all of his money. I could reasonably assume that he'd inherited it, but something about that explanation didn't seem quite right. So what, then? He seemed too young to have made it himself—but then again, people grew up a _lot_ faster in the 1860s than in modern times. Maybe he'd started his own business? I would have to ask him about it when I got the chance.

Cleaning up felt _amazing._ For the past week, I'd been confined to washing myself off with washcloths, my wound hurting too much for me to submerge it. Now that it was closed, I could actually take a proper bath. Unfortunately, even though the house had plumbing, the water was cold—but that didn't bother me too much; there'd been days back home when my water heater broke and I hadn't had enough money to hire a repairman for a while. So, after a week of technically not bathing? Yeah, I wasn't going to complain, _especially_ when my hair felt about as disgustingly greasy as used frying pan.

By the time I finished washing up, the water was fairly dirty, enough to make me feel extremely self-conscious. Had I really been that gross? And, oh jeez, had Henry actually _stayed around me_ while I was that filthy? Okay, either he had no sense of smell or he was just really, really polite. Judging by my lack of luck, I would put money on the latter.

I dried myself off and wrapped the fluffy white towel around me so that I was completely covered before gingerly opening the door a crack. As Henry had informed me earlier, a fresh set of clothes were waiting for me on the table next to the entrance. I quickly grabbed them and shut the door with a barely audible click, examining the apparel a moment later. To my surprise, it wasn't too fancy. The slip was bleached cotton and hung down past my knees, but didn't quite reach my ankles, and much to my relief, there wasn't a corset. The dress itself was a dark plum color that almost touched the floor with thin sleeves and a fitted bodice. Next, I easily slid a pair of nice black boots on to my feet, feeling oddly surprised that they actually fit and were comfortable. Lastly, I fastened a gray bonnet securely on top of my head. I could only guess that I had to wear it because of my short hair, unless I wanted to come up with a believable story as to why it was cut. Seeing as though my poker face kinda sucked, I just went with the damn bonnet.

I had to admit, I almost fell when I tried walking in the stupid dress, but I took a few trips around the bathroom to get accustomed to the feel of it. When I was certain that I wouldn't make a complete fool out of myself, I opened the door and stepped out into the hall. A few strands of afternoon light shone through the windows and I quickly made my way to the living room, where Henry was waiting. He sported black attire and a pair of dark, old-fashioned sunglasses that almost completely concealed his eyes. Frowning, I glanced outside and saw that it wasn't too bright, rendering the glasses almost obsolete, but didn't say anything. No sense in offending my host.

As soon as he saw me, Henry tensed almost imperceptibly and tried to mask it with a small smile, but I saw through it anyways. "What?" I questioned, hoping that I hadn't accidentally offended him somehow (which I kinda had a tendency to do to people), and he shook his head.

"Nothing." He looked away. "I apologize if I was being rude, Miss Armstrong. I—"

"I'm not stupid, Henry," I interrupted, realizing too late that I was being impolite—not that it really mattered at that point. "I know that something's wrong. I don't wanna pry, but what is it?"

There was a moment of tense silence as he obviously waited for me to back down, but when I didn't, he sighed and ran a hand through his messy black hair. "This... this is difficult to explain, but..." He reluctantly raised his gaze to mine. "Those clothes belonged to my wife. It's... _strange_ to see anyone else wearing them."

I instantly felt awful and briefly shut my eyes before speaking again: "I'm sorry. I... I shouldn't have asked. I, ah, I didn't realize how personal it could be."

Henry smiled (well, sort of), but it was a sad smile, one that seemed forced rather than genuine. "No apology necessary. You didn't know." He turned toward the door. "Shall we?"

Nodding after a moment of internal debate, I followed him outside and breathed in deeply, the fresh, crisp air feeling wonderful. Autumn leaves decorated the trees, blowing gently in the chilly breeze, and I felt myself grin despite the serious last few minutes. It was odd to actually see a different season. In San Diego, we had only two—Summer and Not Summer—and I'd never been out of state to witness a real seasonal change. The experience was... different, but nice. I found myself scarcely believing that this—any of it; the time traveling, the beauty of Autumn—was _real._ It _felt_ real. It didn't feel like that fuzzy sensation of half-consciousness that manifested in a dream, like wandering through a sea of fog. No, it seemed tangible, beautiful, like that feeling of lucidity when you realize you're dreaming—and you _know_ that you finally, _finally_ have control over _something_ in your life, at least for a little while.

"Miss Armstrong?"

Henry's gentle voice shocked me out of my reverie and I blinked in an attempt to regain control over myself. "Yeah?"

He looked confused when I finally directed my attention over to him. "Are you alright?" He asked, taking a small step toward me. "If this is—"

"I'm fine," I interjected with a smile, not wanting him to worry. "I just... I guess I'm kinda realizing that this is actually happening, ya know? This," I gestured around with my arm, "is all _real._ I really _am_ in the past. It all felt kinda like a dream until now, but it's _not_. It's _really happening."_

He was quiet for a moment. "I think I understand," he eventually said, glancing around at the trees and the cloudy sky and the shrubbery. "I can't say that I have ever traveled back in time, but I _have_ been in a completely different environment than what I was used to. It feels... imaginary."

I nodded. "Exactly. I just... it's hard to believe that I'm really _here."_

"Well," he extended his arm, "I suppose seeing is believing and you've yet to see the city. Perhaps things will become more realistic once you have. Shall we?"

It took me a second to realize that I was supposed to grab his hand so he could help me down the front steps. Normally, I would have scoffed and pushed him aside, but since I was wearing a poofy 1800s dress that I'd already almost fallen in, I figured that I should just swallow my pride. So, steeling myself, I gently grasped it and allowed him to guide me toward the road, hating how I actually _did_ need his help. In case it hasn't already become apparent, I could not _stand_ being fussed over, and Henry's chivalrous actions made me want to set him on fire. Or maybe I wanted to set _myself_ aflame because I was showing a sign of weakness. Or maybe I was just being pissy. I didn't know. All I _did_ know was that I felt like a complete moron.

Thankfully, I descended the stairs quickly and didn't need to hold on to him once my feet were on the road. For the first few minutes of the walk into town, neither one of us spoke—though it wasn't an awkward silence, oddly enough. It felt strangely... comfortable, familiar, like we'd experienced it a thousand times before. Eventually, however, we began to chat—about books, of all things—and Henry appeared quite interested in my designated college major. He asked me about my studies, how I liked the courses, if I'd read any nonfiction, what my favorite novels were. I answered every question as honestly as I could and with more than just a simple explanation. When I got to the last inquiry, though, I had to stop and think for a moment. Most of my favorite books technically hadn't been written yet, seeing that I was one hundred and fifty odd years in the past, and I had to reach _deep_ into my well of classic literature in order to find a suitable response. Finally, I settled on Hamlet, even though it's a play, not a novel, and Henry appeared satisfied.

Then it was _my_ turn to ask the questions. I tried to avoid anything that I deemed too personal (i.e. what the hell happened to his wife) and instead focused on simple things, things such as _his_ favorite novels, plays, and poems. To my surprise, he liked poetry the best out of all those categories, citing Wordsworth as his favorite poet (so far). In all honesty, Henry had struck me as more of a theater kind of guy, but it only went to show that I wasn't really good at reading people, certainly no Sherlock Holmes.

By the time we reached the city, the wind had picked up and the air was more than slightly chilly. I didn't mind. I'd always been a creature of the cold. Nevertheless, I couldn't suppress a shiver when the first snowflake fell and Henry briefly glanced my way before directing me into one of the many stores. An overhead bell rang as soon as we entered and he quickly shut the door behind us. It was warm in the little shop, for which I was begrudgingly thankful, and a nice fire was burning in a small fireplace toward the back. Random knickknacks, yards of cloth, and other general items lined the wall's shelves and even more were stuffed in large wooden crates. As I looked around in wonder, Henry rapped his knuckles twice on the counter and a few seconds later, a man emerged from behind one of the shelves.

The newcomer looked almost childlike, despite the fact that he was easily in his mid to late thirties, and had bright, shoulder-length orange hair that reminded me somewhat of a stringy carrot. His face was gentle, his eyes kind, but he didn't exactly smile when he saw Henry.

"Mr. Sturges," the man said and I suddenly realized that he was the shopkeeper. "What brings you into town?"

Henry tipped his chin in what resembled a nod of acknowledgement. "Just looking around, Mr. Speed," he responded, voice not quite warm, but not cold either; neutral.

"I see." The man finally took notice of me and I saw his eyes widen almost imperceptibly. "And who might you be, miss?"

I debated what to say for a quick second before settling on: "Name's Olivia. Olivia Armstrong. It's, ah, it's nice to meet you."

He smiled, a large, genuine one, and extended his hand for me to shake. "Likewise." He waited for me to grab his outstretched limb. "Joshua Speed, at your service. I run this here shop."

I nodded and withdrew my hand, glancing over at Henry, who was watching Speed carefully. It didn't take me long to figure out that they didn't particularly care for one another—not quite so far as to say they _loathed_ each other, but it was pretty close. Confused, I opened my mouth to ask about the subject, but Henry beat me to speaking:

"I'm momentarily leaving Miss Armstrong in your care while I mail a letter," he revealed, a hint of ice in his tone. "Try not to bore her to death, Mr. Speed."

And then he was gone, letting in a snow-filled breeze through the door as he left. Frowning, I turned back to the shopkeeper— _Speed—_ and raised an eyebrow. He merely shrugged and shook his head, seemingly not too bothered by Henry's brusque manner. I decided not to worry about it anymore and instead amused myself by looking around the shop. For what it lacked in size, it made up for in inventory. Aside from the general materials (cloth, dried food, etc), there were quite a few antiques (or, rather, new-ish items, but they were antiques to me). One of which was a sword—revolutionary cutlass, by the look of it—and I picked it up, examining the leather scabbard with interest. As I pulled the blade out, I was surprised to find that it was in relatively good condition despite its age. There wasn't any rust (that I could see, for that matter) and the grip was more or less well-maintained. I turned it over and watched the firelight glint off of the blade, my reflection staring back at me.

"How much is this?" I asked, glancing over my shoulder to meet Speed's eyes. "It's beautiful."

He approached me and took a look at the sword, a hint of a frown on his face. "I'm actually not sure," he responded, peering closer at the blade. "I'm not even sure what kind it is."

I briefly looked down at it again, examining the curvature. "It's a cutlass, probably from the American Revolution. I'd say it's British. Swords on the American side were crude and would've rusted away by now, most likely. Plus, American swords didn't usually curve." I held it up in the light. "Also, there's hints of silver forged in with the steel—you can tell by the way the light reflects off of the blade. So that means this sword probably belonged to a British officer—or higher—and was never used in battle. It might've even had an inscription on it at one point, but it's too old to tell."

The shopkeeper gaped at me, incredulity written all over his face. "That's quite impressive, Miss Armstrong," he eventually said once he'd regained his composure. "If I may ask, how'd you know?"

I shrugged. "I read a lot."

It was a lame response, really, but thankfully Speed seemed to buy it, apparently less perceptive than Henry. Smirking, I sheathed the sword and put it back where I'd found it, feeling a little disappointed when it was out of my grip. I figured that it was best not to mention that I could identify the blade because I'd participated in a _lot_ of Renaissance fairs. Speed wouldn't know what I was talking about and I didn't believe Renaissance fairs even existed in the 1860s. Ergo, it was probably a good idea to keep my mouth shut and continue with my horrible excuse of a lie.

"Well, normally I would say it isn't for sale," the shopkeeper finally informed, directing his attention from the sword to me, "but honestly, it's probably better off with anyone else. Thirty-one dollars."

It took me a moment to realize that thirty-one dollars in the 1860s was way, _way_ more than thirty-one dollars in modern times. For one absurd moment, I thought about asking Henry to buy the damn sword for me, but then realized that I'd already used up enough of his hospitality and immediately shut the idea down. I would just have to make money some other way.

"I'll wait on it," I affirmed and gave him a small smile. "I don't exactly have a lot of money."

Speed seemed to consider this for a moment, chewing on his lip in apparent thought. "If you want, Miss Armstrong, I'm in need of an assistant. I've been neglecting this shop as of late—other duties, you see—and I could use someone's help. The pay wouldn't be great, but I could offer you a room as well."

I had to admit, I was a little taken aback by his offer. I mean, I scarcely knew him and was thus wary of him (though he seemed to begrudgingly have Henry's trust). Nevertheless, I couldn't deny that I was intrigued. Not only would I have a way of making money, I would have a place to stay of my own (sort of). In all honesty, it didn't sound like a bad idea, but I didn't want to jump the gun—even though I knew that I couldn't stay with Henry forever.

"I, uh, I'll think about it," I murmured, shyly looking away. "I mean... yeah. I'll think about it."

The shopkeeper was about to say something, but the sudden chime of a bell alerted us that someone was entering the shop. Expecting Henry, I turned around and instead saw a woman walking through the door. She was fairly tall—definitely taller than little five-foot-two me—and had blonde hair that was twisted in an elegant up-do. There was a cold expression on her pale face as her eyes sought out Speed and glared at him, seemingly taking no notice of me. She stalked forward, lithe steps that put mine to shame, and stopped in front of him, curling her lips into a sneer.

"Mr. Speed," she icily acknowledged and I saw the shopkeeper shiver slightly. "We have business to discuss."

To give the man credit, Speed immediately covered his unease. "It'll have to wait, Miss Vadoma," he managed, throwing a quick glance at me. "I'm with a client."

Finally noticing that I was standing there, the woman—Vadoma—directed her attention to me. "I haven't seen you around here before," she remarked, tilting her head to one side. "Who might you be?"

I could tell that all of her politeness was absolutely fake and immediately deduced that she was, in essence, a world-class bitch. Keeping this knowledge to myself, I smiled as genuinely as I could and decided to play dumb. "I'm Olivia," I said, extending my arm forward. "It's nice to meet you."

"Likewise," she murmured as she shook my hand, and I detected a trace of a Southern accent. "Have you known Mr. Speed long, then?"

The shopkeeper shook his head. "I was just showing Miss Armstrong around," he informed and I internally groaned. Great. Now the bitch knew my last name.

Vadoma nodded and then glanced back to me. "Tell me, _Miss Armstrong,_ where are you from? I always like to hear from newcomers. It can get dull on the plantation."

I struggled to keep my eyes from widening. She was a goddamned _slaver._ "California... San Diego, actually."

Her entire demeanor changed, forced cordiality disappearing completely as another sneer overtook her face. "Out west, then." She huffed out an incredulous breath. "I've heard... _interesting_ things about that city. I understand that it's filled with quite... _uncivilized_ people."

Okay, so if it was one thing I could say about myself, it was this: my temper wasn't exactly the best. So for that woman—that _bitch_ —to insult me and my home town? Yeah, no.

"You must be mistaken," I found myself sweetly saying before I could do anything about it. "There're no slave owners in San Diego."

I had to admit, that probably wasn't a good idea, but it felt damn good. As I watched, her expression turned murderous and for a moment, I thought she was going to slap me or something, but Speed finally grew a spine and ushered her out of the shop. The second the door was shut, he whirled around to face me, a huge smile on his face. "That was probably the best thing I've ever seen," he exclaimed as he barked out a laugh. "Oh the _look_ on her face!"

I grinned back at him, feeling proud despite myself. "Is she always like that?"

"Unfortunately yes, but lucky for us, she doesn't come into town very often." He laughed again. "Miss Armstrong, you are welcome in my store any time and that job is most definitely yours should you decide you want it."

At that moment, the door opened again and Henry walked in. I noticed that he immediately took note of the happy vibe in the room and for a second—just a second—a small smile reached his lips. "Did I miss something?" He questioned, his eyes meeting mine, and Speed chuckled.

"Just an astounding battle of insults, which Miss Armstrong promptly won," he cackled before regaining (slight) control over himself. "She's a sharp one."

I blushed. "She had it coming."

"I'm sure she did." Henry extended his arm. "Shall we?"

And with that, we said good-bye to Speed and left the store, returning to the house in a fairly short amount of time. The entire way back, I couldn't shake the elated feeling in my chest and maybe, _maybe_ began to wonder if this whole 'time-travel' thing was such a bad thing after all.


	4. Chess Match

_The autumn leaves gently crunched beneath my feet as I walked along the dirt road, a strong breeze blowing my hair until it stuck straight up. I knew right away that I was dreaming; San Diego rarely experienced a drastic change of seasons, and there were hardly any dirt roads left in the city. Nevertheless, instead of trying to control my surroundings, I decided to simply let myself explore, knowing that I could wake up if things started going awry. The road was straight, but uneven and difficult to walk on, and I almost fell a few times, remaining upright at the last second. As I glanced up at the sky, I saw that it was cloudy, yet not in a gloomy sort of way. No, the clouds provided a nice shield from the sun—it would've been uncomfortably bright otherwise—and I gave a small sigh of content. Even for a dream, this was beautiful._

_The wind whispered through the trees that lined the road, talking in a language that was foreign to me, but the birds seemed to understand. They chirped and tweeted and sang back, hitching rides on gentle updrafts and then gliding back down to do it all over again. I watched them for a moment before looking down at my feet; no sense in disturbing their fun._

_A hint of laughter flew with the wind and I smiled despite myself, somehow knowing that if I followed it, I would find children happily having fun in a playground. Why I knew this beyond absolute certainty, I had no idea, but supposed that it had something to do with having had this dream before. Normally, I would allow my dreaming self to go to the playground and join the children's—usually my old schoolmates—games, but I decided not to this time. This time, I simply continued to walk down the dirt road and listen to the leaves crackle beneath my shoes. I didn't want to leave. I merely wanted to follow the path for as long as it lasted._

_And then another breeze—more of a gust—slammed into me, nearly knocking me off of my feet. I wobbled, somehow not falling over, and folded my arms across my chest before continuing onward. It was a few more minutes before I noticed that the laughter had stopped, leaving a hollow sound in its wake. Frowning, I listened more closely and heard a new sound, one that was_ definitely _not as inviting. It was a single voice—a man's voice—and it traveled through the trees slowly, tauntingly._

_"Why'd you leave us?"_

_I stopped walking and looked around for the voice's origins, realizing with sickening clarity that I_ knew _to whom it belonged. The hairs on the back of my neck suddenly stood straight up and when it—he—spoke again, the sound was right in my ear._

_"Why'd you leave us, Olivia?"_

_Whirling around, I expected to see someone, but instead came face to face with nothing. Tears welled in my eyes and, despite my best efforts, ran down my face before I even knew what was happening. Slowly sinking to my knees, I felt sobs—heavy and horrible—shake my shoulders. I wanted to wake up. I wanted to wake up more than anything, but I couldn't. It was that weird dream experience, the one where you're semi-lucid, lucid enough to know nothing's real, but not quite enough to control any aspect of your mind. All I could do was wait there, kneeling on the ground, and hope that my brain would decide to wake me soon._

_"Why'd you leave us?"_

_The voice came from somewhere behind me, but I didn't turn to search for its master this time. I hugged myself tightly and shut my eyes, willing myself to wake up—or at least change the dream scene. Silence rang in my ears for a few seconds before the voice came back, again closer than I'd expected:_

_"You shouldn't have left."_

_Countless responses flew through my mind, some furious, others pleading, but I didn't say anything, for if I did, it would only solidify the dream. I shuddered as the wind kicked up again and winced against the cold. The sudden sound of crunching dirt reached me, and I knew that if I opened my eyes, I would see to whom the voice belonged—and I didn't want that. Seeing Him again? That was something I didn't think I could handle._

_Freezing fingers found their way under my chin, tilting it up until my face was skyward, and I felt more tears run down my cheeks. There wasn't much I could do besides open my eyes and, swallowing the fear that gripped me, I reluctantly did. At first, my vision was blurry, but when it cleared, I barely managed to choke back a sob._

_"...Dad?" I questioned, voice wavering uncontrollably, and the man in front of me disappeared._

_The sounds of the forest faded and the colors melted as the dream began to crumble, leaving me in nothing but darkness. My body felt heavy—like someone had thrown a sheet of lead over it—and I wanted to scream as a paralyzing anxiety clutched my heart._

_And then I was falling down, down, down into a bottomless pit._

_._

_._

_._

_._

I woke with a gasp, gripping the blankets of the bed so hard that my knuckles were white and sitting up so abruptly that my head spun. It took a moment for me to collect myself enough to realize that I  _wasn't_  still dreaming, but when I did, I breathed a sigh of relief and sank back against the pillows. Damn, I  _hated_  that dream. Not only did I have it nearly every week, sometimes it would disappear for months at a time, only to resurface at the most random, worst times. So far, that was the first time I'd had it since getting sent to Hotel 1800s—and I was certain that it wouldn't be the last.

Lying still for a while, I stared up at the ceiling that was slowly becoming more and more familiar to me. Honestly, I probably wasn't going to fall back asleep (and risk dealing with that stupid nightmare again? Ye-ah, no), so I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and stood, the muscles in my back briefly tensing, but then relaxing a second later. The hardwood floor felt cold against my bare feet, but I was too lazy to rifle through my bag for socks. Instead, I wrapped a bathrobe around the nightgown Henry had so kindly lent me and crossed to my window, gazing out into the night. If I had to guess, I would say that it was around two in the morning—though the rain clouds covering the moon didn't exactly help to provide an accurate reading. Drops of water coated the glass and I turned away. Too melancholic.

Deciding that maybe a book or two was in order, I opened my door and stepped out into the hall, darkness meeting me the second I did so. Thankfully, my eyes were fairly well adjusted, so I miraculously managed to avoid colliding with anything (though just barely). As I made my way to the library, I tried to avoid the stairs that creaked, not wanting to wake Henry—if he was even asleep, for that matter. If it was one thing that I learned during my stay with him, it was that he  _definitely_  stayed awake longer than I could—and weird hours, at that. I didn't ask him about it, didn't want to pry. Like me, he probably had good reasons not to sleep.

Sure enough, when I walked into the library, he was sitting in a comfortable looking chair, leafing through a book—political writings from someone I'd never studied. He looked up the second I stepped through the doorway, a frown forming on his brow as he glanced over at the large grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Turning back to me, he opened his mouth to say something, decided against it, and then settled on: "It's late."

_Thanks for the info, Captain Obvious,_  I thought, but shook my head instead. "Couldn't sleep," I murmured, taking a seat across from him and yawning. "Kinda got a lot on my mind."

As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew that I'd said too much for my liking and internally groaned. Great. Not only was I being a complete drama queen, I'd also provided him with the  _perfect_  opportunity to ask me questions about my life. Now, I didn't particularly  _mind_  answering those kinds of inquiries, but when it came to the nightmares? Ye-ah. I was about as talkative as a fish. The fact that my confidante would be some guy in the 1800s that I'd known for all of two weeks didn't make matters any better.

"Miss Armstrong..." Henry's tone was gentle. "Is something wrong?"

For one absurd second, I thought about telling him  _everything:_  Vadoma, Speed's offer, the nightmares—it all threatened to come out.  Moments before it could, however, I pressed my lips together and shook my head, even though I knew that he would see right through my dismissal.  I couldn’t bring myself to care.  I didn’t _want_ to talk about it.  Any of it.  Although I somehow _knew_ that Henry wouldn’t judge me, I still felt the need to remain silent.  If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my grand total of twenty-two years, it’s that people _rarely_ cared about others’ problems and almost never wanted to help.  Why should I think that Henry would act any different?

“I…” Words seemed to fail me.  “I guess I’m just a little overwhelmed.”

It wasn’t a _complete_ lie—just not the whole truth.  Unfortunately, Henry didn’t seem to buy it nor accept it and instead chose to continue:

“If something’s bothering you,” he began, albeit a little uncertainly, “…Perhaps I can help?”

In all honesty, I wanted to trust him, but experience told me to keep my mouth shut.  After all, how many times had I opened up to someone, only to have them shut me down?  I didn’t want to repeat that, didn’t want to go through another disappointment, and I looked away from his piercing eyes to stare at the floor. 

“Thanks for the offer,” I acknowledged, nervously wringing my hands together, “but it’s something I’d rather keep to myself, ya know?  Kinda… personal.”

Thankfully, he nodded his understanding and dropped the subject.  “Of course, Miss Armstrong.”

“And that’s another thing.” I felt the corners of my lips twitch.  “You don’t have to use my last name.  I mean, I get that it’s normal in this time period, but since I’m practically living in your house, I think we’re on a first name basis.” I smiled completely.  “You can call me Olivia.”

He raised an eyebrow.  “That’s hardly proper, _Miss Armstrong._ ”

_Stop teasing me, you little shit. I’m serious,_ I thought, but laughed instead.  “Okay, okay.  We’ll work on it.”

There was a moment of comfortable silence, during which I glanced around the library until my eyes settled on an all but neglected chessboard in the corner of the room.  Frowning, I stood and made my way over to it, noticing that it was completely set up for a game.  It had obviously been that way for a while, if the dust covering the pieces was any sign, and I picked up a knight, brushing my thumb over the wood.  It was intricately carved—beautiful, really—and I quickly put it back, wondering if I’d overstepped an unspoken boundary.  Looking over at Henry, I saw that he was watching me with slight intrigue, and when he met my gaze, he asked: “Do you play?”

I nodded.  “Yeah, but it’s been a while.  My friend and I used to have matches every week, but then she moved to go to college.  I guess I just stopped after that.”

He stood and crossed to the board, running his fingers along the empty spaces, leaving a trail of cleanliness in the dust.  “I haven’t played in a long time.” He shifted his attention back to me.  “Fancy a game?”

“Sure.” I gave him a smirk.  “One condition: it’s a _real_ match.  Don’t just _let_ me win.”

He smiled.  “I wouldn’t dare.”

Two hours later, we decided on a stalemate.  The game was _definitely_ good: both of us had our queens and roughly an equal amount of pawns, knights, and rooks left over.  To be fair, Henry probably _should’ve_ won; I’d used every trick I knew, including a few that theoretically hadn’t been invented yet.  _Technically,_ I’d cheated, and he’d _still_ prevented a checkmate.

“That was quite a game,” he stated, pushing away from the table with a small grin.  “Can’t say I’ve ever played one quite like it.”

That was basically fancy lingo for: _‘you cheated.’_  

“Same,” I responded with a yawn.  “Fun, though.”

Henry nodded and glanced over at the clock, a frown forming on his face.  I followed his gaze and was surprised to see that it was nearly three in the morning.  Jeez.  I’d known that I would stay awake, but I hadn’t realized it would be for _that_ long.  Yawning again, I helped him put away the chess pieces, admiring the beautiful craftsmanship once more, especially that of the Knights and the Queen.  Elegant patterns—Celtic by the looks of them—swirled around each piece, framing the delicately carved faces.  As I carefully placed them in their proper place, my thoughts began to drift, eventually finding their way to Speed’s offer.  If I accepted it (which I was honestly considering), would Henry take offense?  I knew that I should simply ask him about it, but anxiety gripped my chest at the mere idea of it.  What if he got angry?  What if he thought me ungrateful?  I didn’t want to accidentally offend him. 

Seeming to notice that something was wrong, Henry put away the last chess piece and then directed all his attention to me.  “Is something bothering you, Miss Armstrong?” He asked, thinly concealed concern lacing his tone, and I snapped to attention, startled out of my reverie. 

“Um, no?” I tried, though I knew he wouldn’t believe me.  At his inquiring stare, I sighed.  “Okay, well… sort of.  Um… Speed kinda offered me a job at his store… and a room to go with it. And, I mean, I guess I’m thinking about accepting it.  I mean, if I’m not going home any time soon—which it’s starting to look like I’m not—then I’m gonna need some way to support myself.” I winced at my rambling.  “Sorry.  I just… I feel like I’m… not doing my fair share, living with you.  I mean, you’ve been great to me and I’m really, _really_ thankful, it’s just…”

I trailed off for a moment as I debated what to say.  Already, I was making a complete fool of myself and I didn’t want to worsen the situation. 

“I guess I’ve just been so used to living by myself that I feel like I’m not independent anymore,” I finally managed, looking anywhere but Henry’s eyes.  “I think I just want something to call my own, ya know?”

I didn’t expect him to understand.  I expected him to scoff at me, to accuse me of throwing his hospitality in his face, but instead of doing that, Henry thought for a moment and then nodded with a small smile. 

“I think I know what you mean,” he murmured, gently running his hand over the chessboard again.  “It can be quite… _unnerving_ to stay with someone, even if you get along.  And independence?  There’s nothing like it.” He met my eyes, despite how I was trying to avoid his.  “Miss Armstrong… you don’t have to ask my permission to do _anything._   And accepting Mr. Speed’s offer?  It’s not my decision to make.  It’s _yours._ ”

I waited for the catch, for the manipulation that was sure to come, and was surprised when it didn’t.  “Thank you.” I returned his smile.  “That means a lot.  I… I think I’ll talk to Speed in the morning… er, later today.  A job sounds good.”

I turned to leave, but stopped as a thought occurred to me.

“It’s not like I’m going across the country,” I said, raising my eyes to his.  “This isn’t good-bye, y’know.”

He smirked and began to walk toward his bedroom, calling over his shoulder: “I would despair if it was, Miss Armstrong.”


	5. Lincoln

Morning light streamed in through my window, soft and beautiful, like the faintest hint of a candle. With a yawn, I rolled over on to my side and took a deep breath, reveling in the crisp, clean air of the past. I opened my eyes—just a crack—and smiled slightly at the gorgeous scenery outside. A large oak tree made itself prominent in the front yard and I wondered how old it was—and if it would live to see my time, which, in all honesty, was starting to feel less and less like _mine_. I mean, don't get me wrong: I missed my studies, my city, my home; but they say home is where you make it—and Hotel 1800s wasn't all that bad. On top of that, it didn't look like I would return to the present any time soon. Might as well make myself comfortable.

Making myself comfortable, it would seem, meant accepting a job from a shopkeeper I scarcely knew. I had to admit: I would miss Henry's library… and—begrudgingly—his company. In the short time I'd spent with him (a grand total of three weeks), I'd actually grown to like him, more or less. He'd certainly proven himself not a total creep. Although I was still skeptical about his motives for helping me, I didn't think _too_ poorly of him, and I couldn't help but feel slightly more… at ease, whenever we talked. He had a certain way of speaking—collected, yet enticing all the same—that made me actually _enjoy_ our conversations. Normally when I spoke to people, I couldn't wait to leave, couldn't wait to get away from the horrors of social interaction. With Henry? The opposite was true.

But like I'd said about a week earlier: my acceptance of Speed's offer didn't mean good-bye. Hell, Henry lived about twenty minutes outside of town and, though he sometimes seemed like a young hermit, I had no doubt that we'd see each other again. Still, I couldn't shake the small trace of melancholy that laced my mind like poison, but I did my best to ignore it as I slid out of bed and stood. The dizziness that had resulted from my wound was finally gone, for which I felt incredibly thankful. Now I could walk without _too_ much of a problem (the gash in my side was still sore from time to time).

I made it about halfway to my door before I realized— _hello_ —I was only wearing a thin, revealing nightgown. Remembering at the last second how important modesty was in the 1800s (and arguably still is in the modern day), I pulled on a simple overdress that went down to my ankles. Thankfully, Henry had stocked my closet with clothes—nothing fancy, but enough that I wouldn't astound the locals—and I refrained from asking where he got them. If they belonged to his wife, which honestly felt a little weird, he didn't say, nor did he mention if he bought them recently. I would have to make it up to him, pay him back once I actually had money of my own.

As I walked down the creaky staircase—gingerly, just in case Henry still slept—and into the kitchen, I noticed that the room was empty. In all honesty, I felt relieved. At least now, I would have some time to myself, some time to relax before going into town to accept Speed's offer. I knew that this moment wouldn't last long, so I figured I should use it to at least _start_ paying Henry back (though, without money for the moment). That being said, I decided to make breakfast.

It wasn't like I _didn't_ know my way around his kitchen; more than once, I'd made tea in the middle of the night. And yet 1800s cooking is kinda (really) different than to what I was accustomed. Nevertheless, I found bacon and eggs relatively quickly, as well as potatoes and bell peppers, and the salt wasn't exactly hidden. The pots, pans, and oil were a little harder to find, but I eventually had everything I needed for a decent meal. And then I hit a roadblock: I had no clue how to cook besides throwing things into a pan and hoping for the best. I mean, I'd watched my grandmother prepare dish after dish and _thought_ I could copy her, but thinking is quite a bit different than _doing_ , and I wasn't going to _think_ the ingredients into an edible meal. There was also the problem that I'd forgotten to light the stove (not that that was too difficult).

While I stood there, staring at the ingredients and pots and pans like Tywin Lannister staring at compassion, footsteps echoed throughout the house, eventually finding their way to the kitchen. I didn't, however, pay that much attention to them, so that was why it was such a surprise that Henry stood right behind me.

"Having trouble?"

I jumped and whirled around to face him, fingers involuntarily tightening against the handle of the frying pan. Willing myself to relax, I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled before forcing a small smile. "What gave me away?"

There was no way in _hell_ that he actually bought my crappy attempt at acting normal, but he didn't say anything about it and instead gestured toward the food. "They usually go _inside_ the pan."

I bit back a _'no shit, Sherlock'_ and managed: "Aren't you the master chef."

As much as I wanted to be a sarcastic ass (which, arguably, I already was), I didn't want to accidentally offend Henry and part on bad terms. Coupled with the fact that the Sherlock reference would be lost on him, it just wasn't a good idea. Thankfully, however, he didn't seem to mind—actually appeared to enjoy the banter—and smirked, extending his hand toward the frying pan. "May I?"

The words _'it's your kitchen'_ played on my lips, but I instead argued: "Compromise: you teach me how to make this into something edible, and I'll teach _you_ how to light the stove right."

"That works just as well," he easily replied, crossing to the various ingredients I'd gathered. Grabbing a rather large knife, he beckoned me closer and swiftly chopped one of the bell-peppers in half. "You should start here. Bell-peppers have seeds that need to be taken out first and foremost." He gutted the first one and then handed me the knife. "Try the next one."

I gripped the handle and mimicked his actions, surprised when I didn't make a huge mess. Henry, despite his best attempts to cover it up, looked borderline shocked as well and as I glanced up at him, a triumphant grin on my face, he blinked and leaned against the counter.

"Good to know I can at _least_ use a knife," I said, setting the blade aside and moving the bell-pepper pieces out of the way. "Bonus: I didn't slice my fingers off."

The rest of the preparations were relatively easy. Henry was patient enough whenever I made mistakes, and I caught on quickly to the techniques. When it was my turn to light the stove, I showed him the proper way of doing so, and he emulated my actions almost perfectly—on the first damn try. As much as I wanted to be bitter about that, I felt more happy than angry, mainly because it meant that a: I was an adequate teacher; and b: Henry respected me enough to actually listen to and learn from me. And in the 1860s? _That_ truly said something about his character.

Suffice to say, breakfast was well underway by about seven a.m., and we set the table together before sitting down to eat. We kept the conversation light. Apparently, neither one of us wanted to address the subtext that every sentence conveyed. When we finished the meal (or, rather, lack thereof), I helped Henry wash the dishes and put them away. Again, there wasn't much conversation, but neither one of us seemed to mind. In a way, the silence was… comforting—certainly better than feigned small talk.

As I put the last plate back in the cupboard, Henry leaned against the counter and absently drummed his fingers against it, a vacant expression on his face. Frowning, I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, but quickly shut it again, not wanting to pry. I couldn't deny, however, that there was a hint of _something_ in his eyes, something that I could only identify as melancholy. A sigh escaped me and I mimicked his posture, the wooden edge of the counter digging somewhat uncomfortably into my back.

"Anything going on?" I questioned, finally working up the nerve to say something, and he blinked and shook his head.

"Not a thing," he responded easily, too easily for me to believe.

"Ye-ah, I'm not buying that." My lips curved into a small smirk. "Usually when someone gets an expression like that, something's wrong."

He returned my smile—albeit, reluctantly—and then met my eyes. "I assure you, Miss Armstrong: I'm quite alright."

_You're a rotten liar,_ I thought, somewhat amused, but instead chose to mutter: "If you say so."

Some unspoken agreement passed between us, and we chose to leave the conversation at that. I walked back up to my unofficial-official room and began to pack my belongings (which, if we're being serious, most of them weren't actually mine). Deciding against wearing anything that looked too elaborate, I chose a simple blouse and skirt that thankfully didn't scream _'I'm-from-the-future.'_ When everything was shoved into a couple of suitcases, I carried them downstairs and met Henry by the front door. He offered to take one of the bags, but my pride demanded that I hold on to both (because seriously: would I ever need a man to do anything for me? Ah, no).

The walk into town felt longer than usual, and the two of us did our best to fill it with conversation that _didn't_ seem idle. Despite that he could come across as a humorless, broody gentleman, Henry actually knew how to joke around. Thankfully, this (relatively new) side of him kept our discussion from turning _too_ serious, though when we were about halfway toward town, the subject turned to _me_ —which, in case you haven't noticed, I couldn't _stand._

"You mentioned a while ago that you were looking to move to San Francisco," he suddenly stated, glancing at me from behind his dark sunglasses. "Why didn't you?"

I have to admit: the question caught me off guard. On one hand, I didn't particularly feel like relaying every aspect of my life's story to Henry right then (or ever, for that matter). On the other hand, however, part of me considered telling him _everything._ Why, I have no idea, but it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut and _not_ blubber about, well, my life.

"I, uh, didn't have enough money," I stammered, hoping that he would take a hint. And, in all honesty, it wasn't a lie—just not the whole truth.

Thankfully, Henry could tell that I was slightly uncomfortable and immediately changed the subject to something lighter. The conversation remained that way for the rest of the trip into town. Oddly enough, it didn't feel fake—just shy of content—and I actually didn't want it to end. Walking into Speed's store, however, immediately cut it off, and I barely managed to keep myself from groaning when the shopkeeper practically bounded over to me.

"Miss Armstrong," he warmly acknowledged, tightly gripping my hand with both of his and shaking it. "It's wonderful to see you again."

Despite his overly dramatic greeting, I smiled and lightly returned the handshake. "Happy to be here, too, Mr. Speed," I managed before pulling away, fingers minutely throbbing. "I—"

He laughed—a big, booming sound—and released my hand to run his own through his hair. "How about we agree that there's no need for formalities, yeah? Just Speed'll do."

"Fine by me," I agreed, throwing a sly glance over at Henry. "In that case, call me Olivia. The whole _Miss Armstrong_ thing kinda doesn't feel right."

To give him credit, Henry didn't bristle like I thought he would—a testament to his composure and sense of humor (or lack thereof). "Would you care to show her around the shop?" He casually asked, though I could practically hear his desire to say something more, and Speed shot him a half-hearted glare.

"Of course." The shopkeeper gestured for me to follow him. "Though you've already seen most of it once before."

For the better part of a half hour, he pointed out various aspects of store: where certain items were contained, what was for sale, what needed to be rotated, the list went on and on. I paid as much attention as I could, listening to what I felt were the important parts and ignoring the rest. If he noticed that I wasn't really listening, Speed didn't say anything (though I suspected he was completely oblivious), for which I was thankful. I didn't really feel like getting called out, didn't really want the embarrassment. Save that for a different occasion.

More than once, I glanced over at Henry, who trailed behind Speed and I with an absent expression on his face. Although he seemed the epitome of self-control, I could just barely detect a hint of—bitterness? No, that felt wrong; Henry could brood better than anyone I'd ever met, but he wasn't necessarily a bitter person. What was it, then? Anger? Sorrow? All of those seemed too powerful, too serious.

And then it hit me, a sudden realization like the white around a yellow star in a Van Gogh painting: Henry was going to miss me. And truth be told? I was going to miss him. A lot.

For a moment, we locked eyes, but I almost immediately looked away. I was being an idiot. An overdramatic, complete idiot. It wasn't like I was moving across the damn planet; I was moving into a shop _twenty minutes_ away from him. So yeah, I would miss him, but if I really wanted to, I could knock on his front door any time. Problem solved.

About three quarters of the way through the tour of the store, I spied the revolutionary cutlass and was pretty sure that my face began to glow. Completely ignoring what Speed was saying, I walked over to the blade and grabbed the hilt, pulling it out of its sheath a moment later. The shopkeeper stopped talking and gaped at me as I immediately stepped into the 'en-garde' position. A quick glance over my shoulder revealed a small smile from Henry.

"Judging by your form, I'd say you know how to use that quite well," he deduced, folding his arms across his chest. "Impressive."

I shrugged, a blush creeping on to my cheeks. "I'm alright with it… More used to a foil, but this works too."

He was about to say something else, but the bell above the door rang, signaling that someone was entering the shop. Half expecting that bitch Vadoma, I turned around, ready for another round of insults—

—only to come face to face with _Mary Todd Lincoln._

I barely stifled a shriek and immediately sheathed the cutlass, scrambling to put the whole thing away before she noticed me. When it was back where it belonged, I spun to face her again and tightly clasped my hands in front of me, my face an unflattering shade of red. Speed and Henry watched me with amused expressions, but I didn't care, all my attention focused on— _hello_ —the _president's wife_.

Much to my relief, she didn't see me (that I know of) until a few seconds later. A smile, albeit a slightly confused one, curved her lips as she took a step to the side so that she was out of the doorway. Not two seconds later, a tall, broad-shouldered man walked into the room, and I nearly lost my shit. _Abraham. Lincoln._

I'll admit, I had _no freaking clue_ how to react. Part of me wanted to fall into fangirl mode and scream whilst frantically jumping up and down, while the other part of me knew that I needed to remain (relatively) calm. In the end, all my emotions cancelled one another out, so I just stood there, awkwardly twiddling my thumbs and chewing on my lips. I tried throwing a helpless look over at Henry, but he merely smirked in response as if to say, _'Sorry, not helping.'_

_Ass,_ I thought, but immediately directed my attention back to the couple in the doorway when Lincoln began to speak.

"And you must be Miss Armstrong," he warmly acknowledged, striding forward with his hand outstretched. "I've heard _so much_ about you."

As I (nervously) gripped his hand, something in his tone and eyes registered in my mind, and with a sudden jolt, I realized that—holy shit—he _knew_. He _knew_ that I didn't belong here, knew that I was from the future. Terrified, I looked over at Henry—silently asking him if I was right—and his chin dipped ever so slightly.

_Shit! Shit! Shit!_

It took me a moment to realize that the president was waiting for a response, and I immediately snapped out of my internal panic attack. "It's, ah," I stammered, barely able to form a coherent sentence. "It's nice to meet you, Mr. President."

He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling, causing me to relax a little. Okay… okay. He may be the president of the United States, but that didn't mean he wasn't a human being. I clamped down on the anxiety threatening to explode in my chest and willed it to go away. I could do this. I could _do this._

"Henry tells me that you're to run Speed's shop from now on. Tell me: how did Speed manage to drag you into _that?"_

Holy _shit_ , I couldn't do this!

"I…" I took a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down. "I'm still trying to figure that out."

Lincoln laughed—a warm, excited laugh—and I found myself smiling despite my nerves. At least he wasn't beyond human emotions.

Another glance in Henry's direction revealed that he was smirking ever so slightly, and I reluctantly returned it, out of spite more than anything. Lincoln let go of my hand to beckon his wife over. As she came closer, I felt my inner fangirl begin to scream again. Here was a woman—possibly one of the strongest in the history of the United States—who would live to bury two sons and (eventually) a husband. The thought of that morbid situation suddenly snapped me out of my reverie. Who was I to fangirl when Mary Todd Lincoln actually had to _experience_ those horrors?

"Might I introduce Mrs. Mary Todd Lincoln," the president proudly stated, causing me to blink rapidly to expel the moisture in my eyes. "Mary, this is Miss Olivia Armstrong. She's… a business associate of Henry's."

Well, that's _one_ way to tell a lie.

"It's a pleasure," Mrs. Lincoln said with a friendly smile, and I immediately deduced that she was being sincere, unlike that bitchy Vadoma. "I trust Mr. Sturges has been treating you well?"

As much as I wanted to joke around, something told me to act serious. "Yes, very well… Nice guy."

The couple didn't stay for long, both apparently having a prior engagement, and when they left, Speed and Henry tagged along. Which, in essence, left me all alone in a general store in the goddamned 19th Century. Leaning against the counter toward the front of the shop, I slowly sank to the floor and murmured a quiet ' _holy shit'_ before rising and getting to work.

Ye-ah. Definitely the start of something interesting.


	6. Another Encounter

For the first week or so that I worked in the shop, I felt helpless, like someone had broken my foot and then told me to walk— _without crutches._ And remember how Speed and Henry just left me there all by myself? Ye-ah, they didn't come back. At all. Part of me considered their behavior flattering: after all, they trusted me enough that they thought I could actually function like a normal adult. The other part of me, however, thought of them the normal way: as assholes. Not only did they leave me to basically fend for myself, they also—oh that's right—barely gave me any instructions on how to properly care for the damn shop. Granted, Speed had probably gone over _something_ during our lengthy conversation, but was I paying attention? Ah, no. Was that anyone's fault but mine? Probably not, but we're just going to ignore that for now.

Considering everything, it's a damn wonder that I didn't burn the whole place to the ground. That being said, I started getting the feel of things around the second week, started to flounder less and work more, and let me tell you: that's an accomplishment. I stocked shelves, kept inventory, sold goods to customers—basically the equivalent of working in retail in the future. And as a bonus, I was making money of my own, hopefully enough to either pay Henry back for his hospitality… or buy that sword. Did I have skewed priorities? Probably. Was I going to let that stop me? Probably not.

As I stocked the last of the shelves for the morning, balancing precariously on a ladder, I couldn't help but feel slightly… discontent? Yeah, that's the word. I mean, I _shouldn't_ feel that way; stars only knew how lucky I was to have a job. But nevertheless, I couldn't quite shake the disquiet that filled my chest—odd, considering that I hadn't felt that way since getting whisked away to Hotel 1800s. In all honesty, the last time I'd been so melancholic was when I moved into my own apartment back home, and trust me: _that_ didn't end well.

And then it hit me, like running into a massive Redwood: I was _lonely_. Throughout my stay (so far) in the past, I'd always been around someone, never been alone. I'd always been with _Henry_. Even though I'm about as introverted as people get, _I missed his company._ Now, it's not like I haven't longed for someone's presence before—stars, if someone asked me to count how many people I've missed in my lifetime, I would need about five extra hands—but I suppose what was freaking me out was that, by all rights, I _shouldn't_ want Henry's company. I'd only known him for, what, a month and a half? Hell, I'd known my family all my life and _rarely_ missed them. Why should some guy—in the 1860s at that—mean something different?

Shaking my head, I willed myself to stop thinking about it, lest I wanted to fall off the ladder due to the ever-present tremor in my hands. I needed to stop acting like a teenager and more like—oh yeah—an actual adult. With newfound determination, I pushed the last item into its proper place on the shelf and began to climb down to the floor. Before I even got halfway, however, the bell above the door rang, signaling that someone was entering the shop, and I sighed as heavily as I could.

"We're not open yet," I called over my shoulder, feeling about ready to scream. "Sign on the door should've—"

I broke off as I discovered who stood in the doorway, sensing the blood drain from my face. Oh _shit._ I was face-to-face with a world class bitch.

"Seems as though Mr. Speed is allowing anyone in his shop these days," Vadoma sneered, shutting the door behind her. Dark sunglasses covered her eyes, but I didn't need to see them to know that they were smug. "I didn't expect to see you again."

Barely managing to keep myself under control, I climbed the rest of the way down the ladder and leaned against the counter, fingers digging into the woodwork. "Well, since I work here now, I kinda _have_ to be here."

Her eyebrows shot up. "I didn't realize Mr. Speed lowered his hiring criteria."

"Why don't we skip the conversation?" I hissed, throwing her my best glare. "He's not in right now." I smirked a little as an idea occurred to me. "And the good thing about working here? _I_ decide who comes in and who doesn't… and I don't allow slave owning bitches in my store."

I watched as her lips pressed together into a thin line, watched as Vadoma's hands curled into fists, and briefly wondered if I'd gone too far. Thankfully, however, she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, apparently regaining control of herself.

"Miss… Armstrong, was it?" She questioned nonchalantly, taking a step forward until she stood directly across from me, and I nodded. "Allow me to give you some advice: do _not_ test me."

"Mm, I'm detecting a bit of a threat in that 'advice,'" I snarled, just barely leaning toward her. "Don't worry, sweetheart: you're not worth my time."

Her expression morphed from blank, to furious, and then back to blank again as she carefully considered her next sentence. Finally, she pulled back from me and swept over to the door, wrenching it open with such force that I thought it would come off its hinges.

"You've no idea what you're getting yourself into, _girl,_ " she warned, and I drummed my fingers on the counter, nonplussed.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, heard that one before." I raised an eyebrow. "If you're gonna threaten me, do it right."

Vadoma said nothing, just slammed the door hard enough that the glass quivered. The _second_ she was out of sight, I breathed a sigh of relief and sagged against the counter, partly unable to comprehend what I'd just done. Ho-ly _shit._ Not only did I possibly (definitely) just make an enemy, I'd also probably royally screwed up the rest of my life in Hotel 1800s.

Stars, I'll be lucky if I make it through the week.

**Author's Note:**

> Annnnnddd the adventure begins (again)! I hope that everyone liked this! Thanks for reading! I'll have another update ready in a week or so.
> 
> Take care!
> 
> -Nopride4531


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